


The Kids Aren't Alright

by motleyfam



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Robin, Loneliness, Sick Tim Drake, Sickfic, Vomiting, but not for too long, rated t for jason todd's mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29076009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motleyfam/pseuds/motleyfam
Summary: Tim is fine on his own; he always has been. It’s hardly the first time he’s looked after himself while sick. He’s thirteen, not three. He knows how to take his own temperature and dose out medicine and put himself to bed early.It’s just that, well...The other times, he could still keep water down.Or, after being sent home early from patrol, Jason finds his concerningly ill neighbor attempting to haggle with an Uber driver.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 57
Kudos: 564





	The Kids Aren't Alright

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my two friends who were kind enough to beta read this for me! <3
> 
> Content Warning: vague implications of sexual assault of an unnamed minor.

Mrs. Mac is a chatty person.

And even though Tim’s never really been good at small talk, he actually appreciates this fact about her. Because his parents are anything but. 

Whenever they’re on one of their trips, she stops by twice a week—usually in the afternoons—to pop a casserole in the oven, tidy up the place, and ensure that the thirteen-year-old is getting along alright on his own. Tim sits at the kitchen table with his ever-present pile of homework (skipping two grades _and_ taking AP classes ought to be _illegal)_ while she scours the sinks and counters with a combination of Comet powder and elbow grease, chatting to him about anything and everything under the sun.

Tim rarely contributes more than the occasional nod or polite little hum to show he’s following along as he graphs equations and identifies chemical reactants, but that never seems to deter Mrs. Mac. She shares the weekly gossip from the Seniors Club penny poker games, and how the neighbors kitty-corner from her bought up all the begonias from the local nursery despite knowing that she _loves_ begonias, and about how her adult son, Matthew, might just be moving to Arizona next month if he can get his job contract changed, and about who exactly she’s rooting to win Great British Bake Off and Dancing with the Stars. It’s pleasant, in a way—just an hour or so, Mondays and Thursdays, of someone _being_ there—interacting with Tim, by choice, without expecting much of anything from him in return.

Tim’s never actually met _Mr._ Mac, but he’s heard enough stories about the man to feel as though he has. He’s a first-generation Irish immigrant—a retired postal worker, six years Mrs. Mac’s senior—with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. He pretends to despise the Macs’ two French poodles, Mitsy and Muffin, but has been discovered on more than one occasion cuddling up on the sofa with them when Mrs. Mac arrives home, and Tim’s seen pictures to prove it. A while back, Mr. Mac’s license was suspended after he’d earned four speeding tickets in the span of two months, and when he’d gone before the judge about it, Mr. Mac had simply flipped _His Honor_ the bird and stated that he was ‘old and tired and had places to be.’

And that’s why Mr. Mac now takes the bus.

It’s funny, Tim decides, being fond of someone you’ve never met.

Even funnier that that fondness is what’s currently keeping Tim from dialing Mrs. Mac’s number as he sits curled up on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, alone, his skinny, shivering frame wedged in the little space between the toilet and the wall as his stomach churns with nausea, despite the fact there can’t possibly be anything left inside it to expel. 

Because the thing is, Mrs. Mac would come if he called her—Tim has no doubt of that. She’d bustle right in, tisk her tongue, and order him into the shower while she changed the sweat-soaked sheets on his bed, then thrust a mug of soup into his hands and babble on about some flu Matthew contracted decades ago and how he’d managed to take out half his fourth-grade class with it (two of them during the annual Christmas pageant), all while ushering Tim into bed. She wouldn’t coddle Tim—she’s far too practical for that—but she would make sure that he has everything he needs within easy reach and be sure to call him out of school the next morning.

Furthermore, Tim’s _supposed to_ call her; that’s the deal he and his parents made last summer when he finally convinced them that he was old enough to no longer require live-in nannies. While his parents are abroad, Mrs. Mac is the adult. Tim has her number and can call her if anything comes up he’s not fit to handle. And, after having spent the last seven or so hours feverishly throwing up everything he’s eaten in recent memory, Tim feels just bad enough to uphold his end of that deal.

Except...

Except...

Except that, through one of these afternoon chats, Tim found out that Mr. Mac started chemo last Tuesday. 

Lung tumor. Stage three.

And Tim—despite having never met Mr. Mac—is fond of him. Fond enough to decide that it’s not worth the risk of exposing an immunocompromised old man to whatever god-awful stomach bug he’s managed to pick up just so that he has someone to fill the silence in the echoey bathroom between his rounds of heaving.

Tim is fine on his own; he always has been. It’s hardly the first time he’s looked after himself while sick. He’s thirteen, not three. He knows how to take his own temperature and dose out medicine and put himself to bed early. 

It’s just that, well...

The other times, he could still keep water down.

The back of Tim’s jaw is tingling again, a subtle warning of what’s about to occur. Then his stomach spasms, and acidic bile starts to make its way up his throat. On any other day this feeling would come with a sense of urgency, but that wore off sometime around Tim’s eighth or ninth round of puking so all that’s left is vague annoyance. 

With a weary groan, Tim pulls himself up and over the toilet bowl for what feels like the hundredth time to retch at it painfully. But it soon becomes apparent that he shouldn’t have bothered. Nothing comes up. 

Just like nothing came up the last three times. 

After about a minute, Tim slumps back against the wall, eyes closed, exhaustion making his very bones ache. His mouth is dry as cotton and he knows he needs to replace all the fluids he’s losing, but the little cup of water he’s been sipping at all afternoon has long since run out and the sink might as well be miles away.

Then again, Tim is also kind of dying on his bathroom floor and his parents will probably have something to say about that when they return from… Egypt? Sudan? Somewhere over there. It’s hard to remember exactly when his brain feels so fuzzy. He briefly considers calling them, but then nixes that idea. Between the time difference and his parents’ limited cell reception, it’s unlikely they’ll answer, and even if they do, it’s not like they could come home right away. They’d probably just call Mrs. Mac.

And Tim can’t have that.

His head is pounding, his eyes, dry and burning. He’s not sure if that’s the fever or the dehydration. 

He needs water. He needs water. _He needs water._

“C’mon,” Tim croaks at his useless legs. “Get up. ‘S’not that hard… jus’... get up...”

It’s not a very inspiring pep-talk, but eventually it does the trick. Tim slowly gets his feet under him and pushes himself off the floor and up on unsteady legs. A dark cloud rolls across his field of vision, but Tim just closes his eyes and lets it pass before making his way to the sink. 

He flips on the faucet and lowers his head down sideways to drink from the stream. The water is cold and sweet on his poor abused throat, and it’s all Tim can do to keep from gulping it down greedily. He knows from recent experience that that won’t end well.

He’s managed a few mouthfuls before he feels it—the cold water pooling in his stomach, the tingle in his jaw–

The utter frustration of his body betraying him.

He doesn’t bother moving back to the toilet. His stomach muscles contract painfully with every retch as he loses what little liquid he’s managed to get down straight back into the sink. Tim’s eyes sting and his nose burns. He thinks he might start crying, then wonders whether he already is, but just can’t tell due to the lack of tears and snot.

This isn’t working. Time for Plan B.

There’s a free clinic downtown, Tim knows, and rumor is that unlike the hospital, they don’t ask a lot of questions. It’s still a gamble as to whether they’ll get anyone from social services involved since there’s no way that Tim will be able to pass for anything other than a minor, but he figures once he’s had some fluids pumped into him and his brain is functioning a little better, he’ll be able to come up with a decent explanation for why a thirteen-year-old has been home alone—barring a few housekeeper visits—for the last three weeks.

It’s the best he can come up with, anyway.

It takes longer than it should for Tim to locate the clinic’s address online, download a rideshare app, check the box to ensure that ‘yes, I am definitely 18 years old,’ and order himself an Uber, his thumb tapping the screen with the speed of a middle-aged man sending his first text on his brand new Motorola Razr. Eventually he manages it though, and the app informs him that _Andy, driving a silver Hyundai Sonata_ should be here in approximately twelve minutes.

With that accomplished, Tim lets his gaze fall to his sweat-soaked undershirt. He should probably change it—or at least locate the sweater he’d shucked off earlier sometime between arriving home from school feeling miserably nauseous and holing up in the bathroom for hours on end. Not to mention he needs shoes. And a coat. And money and his house key and– 

Hold that thought. Time to puke again.

How is it possible for the _nothing_ that’s inside of Tim to want out so badly? It’s just not fair; _nothing_ really shouldn’t have this kind of ambition.

After two rounds of dry heaving, Tim’s ears are ringing, his heart fluttering, the edges of his vision starting to darken. Tim gropes blindly for the wall, the countertop, something solid, anything, but it’s as though everything has shifted from where he remembers it to be. His world tilts dangerously and something hard and sharp makes contact with the side of his forehead.

And then there’s darkness.

\----

A loud buzzing is the next thing that Tim registers. 

It takes a few moments for him to identify the noise as his phone vibrating aggressively against a hard surface. Tim groans and lets his eyes stay closed. His head is spinning. His stomach isn’t doing much better. He doesn’t know who’d be calling him at this hour—probably spam. They can go to voicemail.

Some more time passes, and then a car is honking somewhere outside. Two short blasts, followed by a longer, irritated-sounding one. He wonders idly what they want and hopes they’ll leave him alone. He doesn’t feel good.

When the phone buzzes again, he decides that enough is enough. 

With far too much effort, Tim drags his eyelids open and blinks around. He’s lying on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against the cold tile, head throbbing. His phone is several feet away, upside down on the floor, the vibration causing it to skitter on the hard surface. Tim reaches for it and flips it over, seeing multiple notifications on the screen but not bothering to read them before bringing the phone up to his ear.

“H’llo?” he croaks.

“Finally,” a gruff voice grumbles. “Was just about to charge you with a no-show.”

“...Um… what?” There’s something trickling down the side of Tim’s forehead and he lifts his hand to touch it. It’s wet, sticky. Blood. That’s not good. He needs something, uh–

Oh, right. Clinic. Uber.

“Are you… you’re Andy?” Tim mumbles stupidly.

Another huff. “Yeah. I’m Andy,” the man confirms. “And I get paid by the ride, not the hour, so if you’re not coming out–”

“No, I– I’m coming,” Tim says, scrambling up to his knees, then his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness it brings. “Just… just a few minutes, okay?” he says as he stumbles out of the bathroom and into the hall. “I’ll tip extra, I promise.” 

It seems those are the magic words. Andy heaves out a sigh, but agrees to wait five more minutes in exchange for an additional twenty bucks in cash upfront.

Tim’s so scattered and slow-moving that by the time he’s managed to gather the essentials—coat, shoes, keys, money—and made it to the front door, the five minutes must be up because Tim’s phone is buzzing in his pocket again.

Ignoring it, Tim pushes open the door before stepping out into the cold January night air. 

\----

_Go home, Robin._

The words still echo in Jason’s ears. It seems like he hears those words more nights than not recently. Certainly more nights than he ever hears ‘Good job, Robin’ or ‘Nice one, Robin’ or ‘That perv you just smashed in the nuts with that metal pipe will surely think twice before trying to take advantage of anymore defenseless street kids, Robin.’

No, all he hears these days is ‘You’re being too rough, Robin’ and ‘Justice, not vengeance, Robin’ and ‘If you can’t play by my rules, then this isn’t going to work, Robin.’

And Jason is fucking sick of it.

It’s barely ten o’clock, but the darkness of the winter months means that patrols start early and stretch late until dawn. Though Batman is out most nights, Robin is only allowed to partner with him twice a week—a change both Bruce and Alfred insist is meant to promote a healthier sleep schedule for his adolescent brain development, but Jason is pretty sure is actually a reflection of the growing wedge between him and Bruce.

He’s scowling as he makes his way back toward the manor, his boots crunching the snow underneath. He’s not sorry for what he did to the man in the alley tonight he’d found feeling his way up some girl’s bra.

After all, isn’t it the Bible that says, an eye for an eye?

_And a hand for a hand._

Bruce didn’t see it that way, but he can go to hell for all Jason cares.

The temperature is frigid—too cold for the hoodie and jeans he’d ditched his cape for—but with Alfred unavailable, he’d sooner freeze to death than ask Bruce to drive him home. He took the last bus out of the city before trudging the remaining two miles himself, which suits Jason just fine. He likes the bite of the night air. It feels good on his skin.

The sound of a car horn honking pulls Jason from the bitter thoughts swirling in his head. Looking up, he sees headlights coming from a silver vehicle parked just outside Drake Manor. The car door opens and a heavy-set man steps out to peer through the bars of the iron gate, cell phone pressed to his ear.

 _“Finally,”_ he says into the phone. “Was just about to charge you with a no-show...”

Jason’s curiosity is officially peaked now. He’s met Mr. and Mrs. Drake a few times at the handful of high society events Bruce has dragged him along for. He remembers how sharp and put together they seemed—not at all the type to keep someone waiting. Or to order an Uber in the first place, for that matter.

There’s a pause before the driver speaks again. “Yeah. I’m Andy,” he huffs out. “And I get paid by the ride, not the hour, so if you’re not coming out–” 

Andy cuts himself off, presumably listening to the person on the other end of the line. “Look, if you want me to wait a whole ‘nother five minutes, I’m gonna need some kind of insurance that you’ll–” He pauses again. “And that’ll be up front?”—another beat—“Alright, but this is it. If you’re not out in five, I’m off,” he says before ending the call.

And maybe it’s because Alfred isn’t there to expect him home that Jason loiters there, or maybe it’s because he’s still cooling off from his argument with Bruce and is in no hurry to arrive home to an empty house. But either way, Jason ducks behind the hedge and waits to see what happens.

Several minutes pass, the driver pacing irritably and muttering something about entitled rich assholes wasting his time under his breath as he waits. But just as Andy seems to be reaching the end of his patience, there’s a telltale creak before the motorized gate starts to slide open. 

And there, standing at the end of the driveway, shivering a bit in his unzipped coat and rumpled Gotham Academy sweater, blood trickling down the side of his forehead, is a very-pale looking young boy. 

_Timothy Drake,_ if Jason remembers correctly. Or the ghost of him anyway. 

“Holy shit,” Andy says, echoing Jason’s thoughts exactly.

“‘M sorry to keep you waiting,” the boy mumbles, blinking a few times. He’s holding onto the gate with one hand, swaying slightly as he stands. “I’m Tim.”

The driver’s expression is one of utter disbelief. “Where are your parents, kid?”

“I need to go to Park Row Clinic,” Tim says, pointedly ignoring the question. “I’ve got the money, I promise.”

And there are honestly so many things wrong with that statement that Jason doesn’t even know where to start. From the apparent head wound, to the kid’s overall pallor, to the way he’s barely keeping himself upright at the moment, it’s clear he’s in a bad way. But the fact that he’s asking for a ride not to Gotham General, but to Leslie’s dingy little free clinic downtown has all of Jason’s alarm bells ringing.

It seems Andy is having similar thoughts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he deadpans. “You know what they call Park Row?”—(Jason sure does)— _“Crime Alley._ You’re, what? _Twelve?_ No way in hell.”

“I’m thirteen,” Tim says.

“Oh, so much better.”

Tim swallows hard, then reaches into his coat pocket and produces what Jason assumes is cash. “I’ll give you an extra fifty.”

Andy shakes his head. “No way, not happening. Even if you _weren’t_ asking to go to fucking _Stab-Land,_ I don’t give rides to unaccompanied minors, let alone rich ones from _Bristol._ That’s just asking for a lawsuit.”

Maybe it’s Jason’s imagination, but he thinks Tim goes a shade paler in the moonlight. “I won’t tell, I swear. Just…” He closes his eyes and breathes deeply a few times. “My parents aren’t home and I’m really sick and I need a ride. Please.”

Andy gives him a wary look. “You know they make ambulances for that.”

Tim stiffens, and Jason can see the problem even if Andy can’t. Ambulances mean hospitals, and hospitals mean social workers, and Jason’s spent enough of his life avoiding social workers to recognize the signs of someone else trying to do the same. 

“Extra hundred?” the kid begs in a voice so small Jason barely catches it. 

Andy hesitates, glancing from the ghostly child in front of him up to the mansion behind the gate. He chews his bottom lip, eyes narrowing. “A hundred upfront?”

Tim nods once, a movement so sharp it’s practically mechanical. Then just as Andy sighs and moves to open the car door, the facade crumbles and he hunches forward just in time to retch miserably at the ground.

Andy swears sharply, and Jason decides enough is enough. Without another moment’s deliberation, he’s up and moving forward from his position behind the hedge.

“Hey!” he calls as he jogs across the crunching snow. “Timmy Drake, yeah?”

Occupied as he is, Tim doesn’t react, but Andy whirls around immediately. “You know him?” the driver demands.

Jason nods, which might be stretching the truth a bit. He _knows of_ Tim, anyway, even if the only words he can recall ever exchanging with the kid were a whispered warning about the spiciness of the shrimp kabobs at a gala a few months back. “We’re neighbors,” he explains.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Andy mutters.

Doubled over with his hands on his knees, Tim lifts his head, looking confused. “J-Jason?”

Jason nods, a little surprised that he remembered. “Yeah, that’s me.” He’s close enough now that his nose wrinkles up at the sour smell of bile—though, worryingly, there isn’t much of it there on the snow. “You’re not looking too hot.”

Tim breathes out the ghost of a laugh. “Hadn’t noticed.”

Jason waits a moment for Tim to spit a few final times onto the driveway and wipe his mouth on his sleeve before he says, “You know it’s closed, right?” 

Tim straightens up shakily, looking at Jason with glassy eyes. “Huh?” 

“Park Row Clinic,” he clarifies. “It’s only certain nights that they’re open late. On Tuesdays they close at six.”

And just like that, whatever scraps of hope Tim has been clinging to must have just dissolved because the kid positively _deflates_. His shoulders slump and his head droops, his expression a mixture of utter resignation and despair. “Oh.”

Jason’s seen that look before—hell, Jason’s _worn_ that look before, as a pneumonia-riddled eleven-year-old, living on the streets. It’s the look of someone who has absolutely nowhere to go.

And Jason can’t have that.

He turns back to Andy—who is grumbling to himself as he starts to get back into his car. “Look, I live at Wayne Manor,” he says, pointing across the massive grounds at the mansion in the distance. “It’s not far from here. Can you give us a lift?”

Andy scoffs. “I just told him I can’t drive _one_ minor. What makes you think two is any better?”

“I’m eighteen,” Jason lies.

“Bullshit,” Andy says with a snort. “I doubt you even shave yet, kid.”

Jason wants to retort something about how Andy clearly doesn’t shave his nose hair either and so what exactly is his point, but he bites it back. He does need the guy’s help after all. “It’s only half a mile or so.”

“Half a mile that’ll get my Uber status revoked,” Andy shoots back. He gestures around himself. “Not all of us live in mansions, y’know—some of us actually need to _work_ for a living.”

This time Jason’s unable to keep the scowl off his face. “Oh, _now_ you’ve grown a conscience? You were about to drive him to _Crime Alley.”_

“No I wasn’t!” Andy denies, glancing quickly over his shoulder as though checking if someone is watching. “You didn’t hear that.” 

Jason crosses his arms, giving his best impression of Alfred’s patented Unimpressed Look. 

“I wasn’t!” Andy insists.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Just forget the app, alright? We’ll pay cash.”

Andy’s lips twitch, a flicker of something crossing his face. “I still get the hundred.”

“It’s a half a mile!” Jason balks. “The kid’s _sick,_ for Christ’s sake.”

“All the more reason,” Andy retorts. “If he pukes in my car, I’ll have to get it cleaned. And if we’re doing this under the table, I can’t charge him for it.”

And at this point, Jason’s so pissed he’s about ready to say ‘fuck it’ and piggyback Tim the goddamn half-mile himself. But before he gets the chance, he catches movement in his peripheral vision.

He turns his head just in time to see Tim’s knees buckle out from under him.

Two years of patrolling with a self-sacrificial vigilante idiot dressed up in a bat costume have sharpened Jason’s reflexes enough that Tim does _not_ face plant onto the icy driveway. Jason manages to grab the kid under his arms, haul him up, and—after a short but heated exchange with Andy—manhandles Tim into the backseat of the car, his feet propped up on Jason’s knees.

Tim’s not out for long. They’re barely off the Drakes’ property before he’s letting out a little groan, his eyelids beginning to flutter.

“‘Sup Timmy?” Jason asks in his most casual tone. “Got some blood back to your brain yet?”

The boy grimaces, somehow finding a way to go a shade paler. Jason raises an eyebrow and holds out the plastic bag Andy thrust into his hands upon entering the vehicle, but Tim just swallows hard and shakes his head slightly. “’M okay,” he whispers.

Jason scoffs a bit. “Sure you are. You’re the picture of health.”

“Hey, I was serious, kid,” Andy grumbles from the driver’s seat. “If he hurls back there, I’m pulling over and you’re walking.”

A look of instant guilt appears on Tim’s face, but Jason just holds his middle finger up so that it’s visible in the driver’s rear-view mirror and Andy scowls.

“We’re practically there anyway,” Jason points out as the car turns onto the little access road leading to the estate.

Tim’s brow furrows. “Where’re we going?” he croaks.

“My place,” Jason says, a little concerned that the kid apparently hadn’t grasped that before. “Wayne Manor.”

Tim’s eyes widen and he sits up quicker than Jason would have thought possible in his current state. _“Wayne Manor?”_ he asks in a tone somewhere between horror and awe. “Is he… He’s not home, is he?”

Jason snorts. “Not a fan?” Because honestly? _Same._

“No, no, I just–” Tim cuts himself off, running his hand over his face shakily and smearing a bit of the dried blood on his forehead. “Oh _god_...” he breathes out, looking at least as ill as before.

And, Jason gets it—or, thinks he gets it, anyway. Social clout is everything with these rich types, and Bruce Wayne is about as high up the social ladder as they come. Meanwhile, Tim’s not exactly at his most presentable at the moment. Bruce doesn’t really give a shit about that kind of stuff—if anyone understands that all the wealth and social status in the world can’t make someone immune to good ol’ human suffering, it’s Batman. But the Drakes probably don’t see things that way.

There aren’t many perks to growing up the way Jason did, but at least he never had to worry about losing his status. 

He never had one in the first place.

\----

When the car rolls to a stop, Tim drags his achy body out while Jason forks over the wad of cash Tim passes him. Then Andy drives away, leaving the two boys standing outside of the imposing-looking Wayne Manor.

Or, as Tim has thought of it ever since he was nine years old, _Batman’s house._

And, okay, Tim would be lying if he said he hasn’t been dreaming of this moment several times a week for the last four years. Though, admittedly, none of those dreams included being embarrassingly weak, nauseated, shaky, and having his arm slung around the shoulders of _Literal-Second-Boy-Wonder Jason Todd_ just to make it through the door. 

On second thought, maybe this is just a fever dream after all. 

He really should have called Mrs. Mac.

“Well, here we are,” Jason declares as he opens the door and steps into the manor. “Home sweet home.”

Tim blinks around, awestruck. He’s been inside his share of upper-class estates over the years, but it’s no exaggeration to say that Wayne Manor is something else. And not just from the impressive architecture—the brownstone walls, the massive windows, the vaulted ceilings, the beautiful mahogany furniture—but also from the overwhelming and unexpected feeling of _warmth_ emanating through it.

As Jason guides him toward a promised guest room, Tim takes in his surroundings through half-lidded eyes, wishing his throbbing skull would let them open further so that he could drink everything in.

Everywhere Tim looks, there are signs of life. Shoes kicked off by the door. A plate with a few crumbs on the coffee table. A jacket tossed over the back of a chair. An empty mug in the sink. Colorful, plump pillows on the sofa. A neatly-folded stack of blankets in a wicker basket by the fireplace. Books on the end tables—and not just decorative collector’s volumes with impressive pictures for guests to politely peruse, but actual _novels_ with the ends of bookmarks peeking out, as though someone has actually been _reading_ them. An overstuffed bean bag chair sits on the floor between a marble statue and an extravagant oak bookcase, and Tim knows it should look out of place there, but somehow it just seems right.

“Sorry it’s not very tidy right now,” Jason apologizes. “Alfred – he’s our butler, but he kind of runs the show around here – he’s been in England for the past week. His mom fell and broke her hip, and I guess when you’re that old, that means you don’t have much time left, so…”

“’S gorgeous,” Tim whispers as he shuffles slowly down the hall, and he really does mean it. Drake Manor has a coldness to it that never quite goes away, no matter what the thermostat is set to. Sometimes, Tim thinks it feels more like a museum than a home.

Not so here. Even the guest room, when they finally arrive, has a distinct warmth to it, which is good, because Tim is fading fast. Jason—who’s supporting practically all of his weight by this point—deposits him down on the edge of the bed. He feels more than sees Jason tugging his jacket off his shoulders, then taking off Tim’s shoes. 

Tim’s head is swimming, but he doesn’t close his eyes, afraid that if he blinks too long, this will all disappear.

He’s guided back against the pillows, still on top of the bedspread. “I’ll be right back. Just gonna grab some stuff,” Jason says, then turns and hurries out of the room before Tim can even think of a response.

So Tim just sits there, gazing blankly around him, feeling overwhelmed and awed, and uncomfortable and warm, and miserable and lucky all at once.

\----

Okay, so, Tim looks terrible.

Obviously Jason knew the kid was sick when he suggested that they make their way back to the manor, but it’s been all downhill since they got out of the car. Jason had to practically carry Tim—who was just sort of floating through space at that point—through the absurdly large first floor all the way to the guest suite and get him settled. Even through the boy’s clothes, Jason can feel a concerning amount of heat coming off of him, and there’s a glassy look in his eyes as his gaze dips around the room. 

Since the cave’s medical bay clearly isn’t an option, Jason runs upstairs to the master bathroom—which is almost as well-stocked, thanks to Bruce’s hyper-vigilance—and grabs whatever looks helpful, then raids the kitchen on his way back. Alfred would be great right about now, what with his impressive medicinal tea collection and seemingly endless knowledge of herbal remedies, but Jason’s no stranger to looking after others. 

It’s about the only reason his mom lasted as long as she did.

“Alright, dehydration’s a bitch, so let’s start there,” Jason declares, reentering the guest room to find Tim still blinking dizzily at the wall. He starts to unload his supplies, listing off each item as he sets them down on the room’s antique writing desk. “We got water, ginger ale, Gatorade, and”—he frowns at the exotic label on the last one he grabbed—”something in Mandarin that Bruce drinks ‘cus it’s got electrolytes or some shit.” He looks back to the boy. “Whatcha feeling, Timmy?”

“Uh…” Tim stares blankly at the line of choices, clearly overwhelmed. “Um, I don’t, uh…” He swallows hard.

Jason lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Good talk.” He picks up the blue sports drink bottle and cracks it open. “Here. Try this.”

Tim has to hold the bottle with two hands, and even then, it seems to be taking all of his focus to do so. While he sips carefully, Jason cleans the dried blood from his forehead with some antiseptic-soaked gauze, relieved to see that the wound is shallow enough not to require stitches. Not that Jason couldn’t do them, of course—in Alfred’s absence, he stitched up Bruce just two nights ago and did a damn good job of it, thank you very much—but it would definitely cause questions.

Or, actually, maybe not. Tim seems to have a pretty singular focus on the moment: breathing very, very carefully through his slightly open mouth.

“Doing alright?” Jason asks, opening a new sterile gauze packet.

Tim nods—a singular, jerky movement, which Jason isn’t really buying. He’s about to call the kid out on it when Tim squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, face draining of color.

Without needing to be told what’s about to occur, Jason hauls Tim up and into the adjoining bathroom just in time for him to drop to his knees and lose the minuscule amount of fluid he’s swallowed straight back into the toilet. Jason hovers awkwardly a few feet away.

“Cool,” he says once Tim’s gotten his breath again. “So Arctic Blitz is a no-go. Wanna try Glacier Cherry?”

\----

Over the next two hours, Tim throws up _everything._ He throws up Gatorade. He throws up Alfie’s tea. He throws up fancy Chinese electrolytes. He throws up ice chips. He throws up Tylenol. He even throws up Pepto-Bismol—which Jason frankly didn’t know was possible to do. 

Jason tries to keep up some lighthearted banter, but as the hours creep by, Tim is responding less and less. By midnight, his lips are shriveled and cracked, the thermometer is reading 102.4, and it’s all Jason can do to keep the boy conscious.

The last time Jason saw someone this ill, he was eight years old, squatting on the first floor of some condemned apartment building in Park Row. His mom was coming off a bad trip, hallucinating between the drugs and the fever, unable to keep anything down. Jason was crying, terrified she wouldn’t make it through the night.

He kind of wants to cry now, though not from fear—from the utter frustration of it all. Because there’s only one thing left to do.

After positioning Tim on the floor with a towel under his head, Jason slips out into the hall, phone in hand. He steels himself, then presses the call button. 

It rings twice.

“Robin.”

Batman’s voice is low. Grating. Jason grits his teeth and closes his eyes. The girl tonight couldn’t have been more than twelve. He can still see the terror in her eyes, still hear her screams. Anger bubbles in his chest.

_Go home, Robin._

He wasn’t wrong. He isn’t sorry. That creep deserved everything Jason gave him and more.

 _“Robin,”_ Batman repeats, and there’s that familiar tone of command to it now. Screw the time difference—Jason should have just called Alfred after all. Or Leslie. Or a fucking ambulance. Or looked it up on YouTube.

“Jay.” And this time it’s not Batman speaking. It’s just Bruce.

“I need–” Jason takes a breath. “I need you to tell me how to set up an IV.”

There’s a pause, then, “What happened.”

As quickly as he can, Jason rattles off the events of the last few hours, barely stopping for a breath lest he give Bruce the chance to get a word in. By the time he’s done, hot, bitter tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes, and Jason isn’t even sure why.

“Is he in the cave?” Bruce asks.

“No, I’m not fucking _stupid_ ,” Jason snaps, a bit of the tightness in his throat being replaced with anger. It feels good. Familiar. “He’s in a guest room.”

“I see,” Batman says, his voice perfectly level.

The hot tears are blurring Jason’s vision. “I couldn’t just leave him,” he babbles, the words just tumbling out one after the other. “His parents aren’t here—I don’t think they have been for awhile. I know it was dumb and he probably needs a hospital, but he didn’t want to go and I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“Jay–” Bruce starts.

“He didn’t have _anyone,_ okay?” And Jason’s voice breaks as he thinks of that girl, thinks of his mom, thinks of himself.

 _“Robin,”_ Bruce says again, and it’s Batman now.

“W-What?”

“You did good, son,” Batman says, and Jason can’t stop his breath from hitching as a single sob slips out. "I'm proud of you."

\----

Tim is aware of things in bits and pieces. 

A wet washcloth is wiped across his face. Another one is draped across the back of his neck. Strong arms lift him off the floor and guide him onto a bed so soft that he wonders if he’s dreaming. There are low voices in the background. A prick in his arm. A rush of cold fluid through his veins.

“You’ll be alright,” Batman’s voice is telling him, and now Tim _knows_ he’s dreaming. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

“‘M sorry,” Tim breathes, eyes closed because he doesn’t want to wake up. Not yet. It’s such a nice dream. “I shoul’ go.”

“No,” comes another voice—Robin’s now. “You’re right where you need to be.” 

Tim hums a bit.

It’s so nice not to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you have a minute to spare, please let me know what you think of the story <3
> 
> I also have a tumblr if you'd like to chat: [motleyfam](https://motleyfam.tumblr.com/)


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